


Soulmates Never Die

by wrothmothking



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Episode: s01e14 Eye of the Needle, Incest, M/M, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:02:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26143792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrothmothking/pseuds/wrothmothking
Summary: Normally, he doesn't think of it, the blotch on his thigh. He doesn't trust it to lead him to his perfect match, the one person who can handle him without breaking him or being broken, and love him throughout it all. Most days, he doesn't trust that person to even exist.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright/Martin Whitly
Comments: 6
Kudos: 67





	Soulmates Never Die

**Author's Note:**

> what up i never knew my dad and i'll see y'all in hell. enjoy!

“My boy,” his father rumbles, pupils blown. This is the longest Malcolm's maintained eye contact with him since their ten-year break, and the intensity of the connection sets his heart a-racing. But his hand remains steady. Of course his hand tremor would quiet as he sits on the precipice of stabbing his maker in the heart. He won't die from it. Probably. _Hopefully_.

(Once, he'd feared what having to lie all that time ago meant about him. That he could imagine killing his family, his own flesh and blood, a dozen ways in half a dozen seconds, each just as gruesome as the methods the notorious Surgeon offered. He'd feared the excitement thrumming through his veins as his terrible brain illustrated in graphic detail killing and being killed.

Now, though, now he hates himself for the opposite. For wishing with every cell of his body that Martin will survive this. Maybe if he dies, Malcolm could live the normal life he's promised to want. Maybe he could evolve into the son his mother wants, and be a better brother, too, no longer permanently unavailable and hogging their sole parent's attention whenever he's in-state. And maybe the Carousel Killer will deny involvement and Malcolm will find himself taking up his father's newly-vacant cell, forced to finally get real, clinical help.

But he doesn't want it. Any of it.)

Martin's blinding smile freezes on his face as Malcolm pushes the ice pick into his chest, the sounds of his pain already haunting him as he falls onto his back, mouth agape as though him'd doubted Malcolm going through with it.

(Impossible; Martin is always in control. Just as when he was a child, Malcolm is a marionette dancing at his whim. Alas, logic fails to drown the guilt.)

Mr. David bursts into the room, other staff following in his shadow. Malcolm's forced to drop the ice pick, arms taken by a pair of burly, indistinct men to manhandle him out of the way—and out the door. His mother's shouting, but he can't make out the words. His mind is the blank landscape of the arctic desert, empty of emotion and thought. Distantly, he has the wonder if they'll let him keep it. The _murder weapon_.

He doesn't come back to himself 'til Gil's there, and then he gladly forgets his father in favor of The Plan.

And if he nearly chokes out their suspect, fury held in check by the heavy stares of his team, well, it's only proof that, unlike a proper psychopath, he can't turn off his feelings. He thinks his father would be proud of is violence just the same.

If he doesn't die before Ainsley or Gil or Mother snitch.

When the red dissipates from his vision, he notices all three standing at the glass beside him, watching Martin's operation with the same bated breathe. He wonders what outcome they're hoping for. If he's alone in his yearning for a man who shied from killing him but not from enacting grievous psychological harm still debilitating him two decades later. Who at every opportunity pries him open and fiddles with his insides like a bored toddler. Perhaps that's exactly what Malcolm's become to him: a game. Perhaps that's all he ever was.

His hand shakes; his mother takes it in hers, a rare moment of silent solidarity. He wants to pull away. He doesn't.

“What happened, Bright?” Gil finally asks. Malcolm thinks he's repeated that question often, though he hadn't the presence of mind to understand it until now.

Ainsley perks up, side-eyeing them with none of her usual subtlety. She's annoyed to be out of the loop, again. Always the outsider. Privately, Malcolm swears to hold a sibling day like when they were younger.

“I didn't have a choice, Gil. An innocent woman would've died otherwise.”

That...was not his voice.

“Wait, _you_ stabbed him?”

“I'm sorry, do you not think I'm _capable_?”

“Stop, you know I didn't mean-”

The rising argument fades from Malcolm's focus. He can't believe she-

What is she _doing_?

His gaze snaps to Ainsley. She's similarly shocked, yet in no danger of crisis. Realizing both one's parents are killers could be traumatizing, regardless of their caretaking capacity—and, in this case, the truth of their characters. Whether their mother could've followed through or not, she shouldn't be this put-together after. The woman they know simply doesn't have the ability to hurt someone like this without breaking. Not even the monster of her darkest nightmare: reality. If Ainsley believes this lie, she's knowledgeable enough to realize the ramifications concerning their relationship.

Malcolm eases closer to her, their irate mother's grip keeping him from moving far. His free hand settles between Ainsley's shoulder blades, and he smiles, throwing as much assurance and secret meaning into the expression as he's able. Ainsley's mouth twitches, and she relaxes, dry eyes turning again to their father's prostrated form struggling to weather its time on the table. Malcolm's own wet with tears. If he's done it right, this episode of their lives can have a happy ending. Otherwise...

Malcolm refuses to follow the thought to its conclusion. Something of it would show on his face, and he can't help anyone if he's on lockdown.

(He can't hurt anyone, either.)

“And you saw this happen, Bright?”

His mother's glare is ample reason to comply. “Yeah.”

Gil's lips purse, concerned. It makes Malcolm feel all the worse for lying, but he knows the distraction of their personal bond will stop him from sussing out the truth, at least for the moment. He's not sure why Mom's decided to deceive him like this, cover story or no. He ought to find out before he betrays her trust. Witnessing his attempted murder could not've been good for them, even if being in cahoots has makes them partners.

His hand tightens its grip on Mom's, and his arm shifts to drape over Ainsley's shoulders, bringing her in against his side. He shoves down the disappointment when she no longer fits as she did in her youth, a reflexive emotional response he may never lose. If only she'd taken after their four-foot grandmother...

“It was a necessary risk, Gil.”

“'Risk'? Malcolm, this man is _dying_.”

It's a relief to see Gil care, even if it's dependent on his mom being on the hook for it and Malcolm's recent closeness with him, however strained or damaging to his psyche it's been.

“He'll be fine. You'll see.”

Ainsley returns his side-hug, grateful for the familiar reassurance and ready to believe it. But Mom narrows her eyes, scowls, fixing to argue but unable to force her throat to vocalize—the day's stresses catching up to her. Gil frowns, worried further; he doesn't comment, though, and leaves with Mom when the atmosphere grows too stifling for her to bear.

Malcolm knows because he leaves soon after, a hole in his heart, a forest fire raging within his skull. Ainsley's stuttered sigh chases him out the door.

* * *

He returns to his father's side when he sees Ainsley on the television, assured she won't be skipping work to maintain her vigil. Perhaps it's a side effect of his mother and Gil's staunch disapproval whenever he affords Martin any kind of interaction, that he feels the need to hide his visit.

Martin's comatose. Malcolm clenches his hand into a fist to ease the tremble; Martin's often placid, but he's never still. His normal human act demands an open expressiveness Malcolm's learned the tricks to, and now with him unconscious, mind unreachable, he's left to flounder. He wonders what he dreams of: his murders or his family. Or, the most frightening answer, both.

Malcolm settles into the uncomfortable hospital chair at his father's bedside, hand freezing as it clasps Martin's instinctively.

He swallows. Reaching out is always awkward and forced for him, exceptions rare: Ainsley, Gil, Dani, Edrissa. (Jackie.) But only sometimes, even Gil's everyday cologne and the soft material of his sweaters making his skin itch.

Yet here he is, clutching this monster's hand, skin contact holding down half his forearm. A fresh round of tears prick his eyes. Warmth radiates from their point of connection, and he can barely breathe for how frantically his heart beats.

He doesn't pull away. Shamefully, he doesn't want to.

A watery smile graces his face as he chuckles, hysterical energy bubbling in his throat. He uses the grounding exercise impressed in him as a child, counting off things he sees, hears, smells. Touches. As he calms, a wave of exhaustion hits him. Maybe he should leave, go home and try to sleep before a fresh pulse of adrenaline strikes.

Instead he leans forward, second arm sliding against his father's side as he plants his face in Martin's chest. The scents of the operating theater embedded in his clothing try to pull him back to his childhood, but he resists; only ghosts wait there for him. His father's body is different and the same, familiar and strange.

“My boy.”

Malcolm startles, falling back into his chair—it rocks up with his momentum, but Martin's unyielding hold stops it from tipping over.

“Let go,” he snarls, pulling hard as he can.

But Martin is strong, stronger than a man on his deathbed should be. Malcolm'd let his guard down, thought his active lifestyle hunting killers would give him the advantage here. He was wrong. It doesn't make sense-

Panic lights up his brain, threatens to overtake him as Martin...

Sits up.

“ _What_?”

The Surgeon cups his face, thumb gliding over his cheekbone. “It's okay, Malcolm. Dad's got you.”

“What...No-”

“I'm fine, and you're fine.”

“But, _how_ are you fine?” Malcolm scowls.

Martin smiles, full of meaning. “Because I have you.”

Soulmates can heal each other. Malcolm's gaze falls to the mark on his inner thigh, hidden by his trousers. He'd gotten it late, at Quantico; his father's never seen it. And he's never seen his father's. Martin said it was inactive, melding into his skin tone, and that was that. His mother didn't have a mark, wouldn't until her husband's arrest, so it'd taken great courage for Malcolm to ask.

“You're my father,” he whispers.

His father, who is a serial killer. Hardly a morale man. Of course his only hope for a match would be one he crafted himself, and of course he would have no problem altering the nature of their relationship as he desires.

The hand upon his face feels like a brand. His breathing picks up. The Surgeon is uncuffed. There are people within shouting distance, surely, but none so close as to stop a murder—or an escape. He vaguely remembers passing a trio of uniforms gambling at the end of the hall. When will be their next check-up?

“You still think I could hurt you.”

“You already have.”

Martin grimaces, a play at remorse that fails to hide the darkening of his eyes. He does so hate when people refute his truth.

“Never intentionally,” he assures. Then, before Malcolm could protest, “At least, nothing I could go through with.”

A wry smile paints itself across his face as he ducks his head. His soulmate tried to kill him. It's not worse than what he'd known, exactly, but conflating the Surgeon and his supposed perfect complement hurts in a way he thought no longer possible.

Malcolm can no longer deny the monster inside. A secret part of him used to think it would be freeing, but it's just another cage. Smaller. Lonelier.

As if to refute him, Martin tugs him into a hug, the embrace exorcising the chill from his bones.

“I hate you.”

Arms tighten around him, and short-clipped nails dig into his skin: markers of his father's rage at being rejected. “I know.”

“But I love you, too. I wish I didn't.”

Martin pulls away, meets his gaze. That same hand cups his face, his chin this time, grip firm. Malcolm looks back, wary. Alert for signs of attack. But all Martin does is kiss his forehead, a familiar gesture made more intimate by their recent revelations. He doesn't retreat after, resting their faces together, his smiling lips pressed into his eyebrow.

“We'll fix that,” he murmurs. “I'll make you so happy, I promise.”

Malcolm swallows. “Then don't leave.”

“Never, my boy. Never. You must've noticed the security at Claremont isn't what we'd call foolproof.”

“Then why'd you stay?”

“Well, it's comfortable. I get to consult with patients, have phone time. TV time to watch your sister. And, y'know, I knew you'd come back. No way you'd respond well if I showed up in your apartment. You might've _actually_ killed me.”

Malcolm frowns, because he knows he wouldn't've. And he wouldn't've sicced his FBI friends or local cops on him either, since they'd proven themselves trigger-happy—plus, they hated him. Remembering his grief and wrath when their killer was killed instead of safely contained is itself disconcerting; he doesn't need Gil telling him to realize every one of them was a stand-in for his father, an obsession he's failed to hide from everyone besides the man himself.

Martin nuzzles his cheek, practically gathering Malcolm into his lap, and...

Malcolm should mind. Malcolm should yank himself free, call for help. Run away and call Gil.

 _Gil._ How would Gil react to this? His mother? His sister? Would this be the piece of madness that destroys his bonds with them? Because regardless of shared blood, this _is_ madness. Martin broke him. Martin will continue twisting him up inside until Malcolm slits some poor soul's throat, his mere presence sufficient to the task—there's no fighting that, if he can't leave _now_.

Unfortunately, their infatuation is mutual, and Malcolm has grown tired of resisting.

His chin drops onto Martin's shoulder, legs straddling his lap. Martin leans back against the headboard with a delighted sigh, humming a tune Malcolm doesn't recognize. For the first time, he feels guilt for the distance he'd put between them; had he not, he's sure he could identify it. Tease him with a toothy grin and a sweet brushing of lips-

His father kisses the vulnerable line of his throat, and he goes boneless even as he pales. He really is going to allow this. The excuse of revealed soul marks lurks at a corner of his mind, hiding from the light of truth: both their marks are covered by clothing, untouched. There's been no physiological reaction—yet. Won't be until his hand creeps up Martin's gown or Martin divests him of his pants. But it'll be a good lie for Gil and the others, and later, when he's trying to sleep, alone, it'll be a good crutch to keep the panic and self-loathing down.

“ _My boy._ I can't believe it's you. Guess I should've known.”

“You really didn't know?”

“How could I've?”

Despite having thought the same, Malcolm can't believe it. Easier to give in to a master manipulator he has the ingrained need to seek the approval of than accept the alternative. It's not impossible that he _did_ figure it out somehow; Martin'd skipped passed surprise. Maybe this is simply the prime opportunity he's been waiting for.

Fingers creep up his spine under the barrier of his shirt. He shivers; Martin chuckles.

“Mm, you're gonna be perfect.”

 _Gonna be_. That's as much promise as it is threat.

This is going too fast. Malcolm peels his torso from his father's-

And takes off his blazer, followed by tie and shirt. An offering.

Martin beams at the expansive skin on display, caressing every inch with total devotion. Malcolm soaks it in, panting, hands tangled in the bedding. A strangled moan erupts from him as Martin thumbs a nipple, smirking. His hips rock atop his father's, a plea for more. Malcolm kisses him.

Surprise parts Martin's lips, and Malcolm slips his tongue in between them. It's only now he processes his bad breath, but he's passed the point of caring. He's more than earned the right to do something dumb and entirely selfish.

So, finally, Malcolm stops worrying about future pain, instead cradling his father's jaw and mewling as he reciprocates with gusto. Those devilish fingers work at his belt, and it's _not fair_.

It takes three tries to wrench himself from Martin, Martin finally relenting when he realizes Malcolm's desire. Separation lasts a cold, excruciating half of a minute as Malcolm rips the sheets from his father's lap, the hospital gown from his father's body, and his own clothes from his lower half, even folding to pull off his socks when the localized heat irritates him.

He doesn't take time to look at Martin, the parts he's seen and the parts he's not, frantic to bridge every millimetre of distance between them once more. They groan into each other's mouths, cocks grinding together, hands groping blindly. One finds Malcolm's ass and he squeals, blushing. His father's chuckle reverberates through his chest, elation rushing through him 'til he's drunk with it. It feels like dying. It feels like everything he's yearned for.

He's so full, so ready to burst, ready to _cum_ , and he doesn't even have Martin inside of him yet.

“Lube,” he gasps, “we need lube.”

Martin shudders, hips jerking hard into Malcolm's. But not hard enough. Malcolm's heart flutters in his chest, a wash of dizziness making it difficult to extract the lotion from his nearby-discarded pants's pocket.

His excitement is derailed as Martin's hands encircle his wrist and throat like iron cuffs, a snarl on his face. A jolt of fear pushes through Malcolm's haze; this isn't fun-time restraining. He freezes, mind struggling to pull together in the wake of arousal—arousal, and sweet, sugary _joy_.

“ _Malcolm_. Should I be jealous?”

He blinks. “What?”

The grips tighten. Somewhere, in his fucked up brain, this translates as permission to return to their _very important_ activity. He's grinding again before he can stop himself, moaning at Martin's growl.

“Oh, fuck, I want you inside me,” he babbles. “So bad, Dad, please, didn't mean to make you mad, just-”

“No, no, sweetheart, I'm not mad at you. My beautiful boy, you're being so perfect for me.”

Malcolm _whines_. It's a lie. Otherwise, Martin's assurance wouldn't be edged with distraction, glancing over being called 'dad'; Malcolm must've _really_ fucked this one up. Even when he gives in and commits to something Horrible, he can't manage to do it right.

Martin flips them, hands disappearing to manhandle Malcolm into a spread-eagle position, carelessly tossing the clothing draped there to the floor. Malcolm huffs at the mistreatment, still awkwardly holding the unopened makeshift lubricant. Martin nestles between his thighs, pawing at the marking he finds there.

Malcolm gasps, spine arching. He'd nearly forgotten. Being soulmates may'be broken the dam, but the structure was already doomed. This thing between them was already there, buried under the delusion they each had about being good people. Heat rushes through him like never before, leaving him feeling like he's been on the edge for _hours_.

“You really are mine.”

Malcolm rolls his eyes. He rather thought they were passed this point.

Their marks are anatomical hearts, filled with blood, vibrant flowers growing from disconnected aortas. Malcolm never looked into the kinds, fearing the meanings behind the trifecta.

As if reading his thoughts, Martin rattles them off, tracing each in turn, “Red salvias: 'forever mine'. Rhododendrons: 'danger, beware'. Hm. Not quite fair, but I imagine you're fond of that one.” Malcolm bites his tongue, barely able to take in the words as the pleasure builds. His cock aches. “And yarrow for everlasting love.”

Martin smirks. Storm blue meet a lighter, grayer shade. “So much for the argument I'm incapable of love.”

Malcolm smiles despite himself, an encouragement he'd never give clear of the fog of love-affection- _desire_. The reward may change that: a candied melding of lips, the hunger behind it no less apparent for the tempering by tender-sweet ardor.

“Tell me: why do you have lube in your pocket?”

Malcolm scowls, confused. “It's-it's lotion?”

The heat plateaus, then quickly dives as Martin pauses. He takes the bottle from Malcolm, skimming the label as he pops the cap. Goosebumps rise along Malcolm's forearms and sides as he realizes what he's to do with it.

“Good. I'd hate to have to add any charges to my sentence.”

Jealousy isn't actually supposed to be attractive. Given the situation, Malcolm decides to skip the guilt, leaning into the reflex of tallying his four lovers and the handful of sex workers he's been customer to instead.

“Have you been with a man yet?” Martin next wonders, warming the lotion between his fingers.

“No,” Malcolm answers, honest, because Vijay and he never made it that far. He decides not to mention the college girlfriend who'd often pegged him—she's since relocated to Japan, but he's come to learn that nothing is outside of the Surgeon's sphere of influence. Besides, it's only peripherally relevant to the question asked.

To erase the considering expression from his father's face, Malcolm's hand ventures to Martin's soul mark. They both groan, and Martin slides a finger in to the second knuckle.

Malcolm gasps, shocked. It stings for a mere moment, but he's aware he's bleeding; arguably unavoidable, given how long it's been.

He floats on the internal pressure. Time blurs into a too-fast too-slow mess, the world fuzzing out before the corners of the room. One finger becomes two becomes three, each adjustment bringing a new level of fullness he can feel all the way up to his sternum.

“You're doing so well,” his father praises. “Do you want to cum?”

Malcolm shakes his head.

“No?”

He groans, trying to pull together the focus to muster speech.. “Want-want you first.”

Martin's free hand curls around his wrist. He looms over Malcolm, kissing up his chest, neck, and, finally, his face. Malcolm smothers a wail between their lips, letting go of the sheets to claw down Martin's back. He growls back, pressing his dick hard beside Malcolm's, grasp clenching around its hostage, his fingers scissoring best they can with the awkward angle, exuberance making up for it.

“Dad. Dad, c'mon, it's enough. Please!”

Martin relents. Malcolm sobs at the twin pleasures' full stop, leg jerking; Martin only chuckles as it brushes harshly against his side.

Malcolm can barely hear his father slicking himself over the drumming of his heart. Too soon, too late, the head breaches his body. He sighs.

“ _There_ we are.”

Inch after inch eases into him. His round belly presses into Malcolm's sunken stomach. His head burrows in the curve of his neck. The hand no longer needed downstairs clutches desperately at Malcolm's shoulder, bruises already forming under his fingertips. All over him, all around him: Martin.

Tears slip unbidden down his cheeks. Feeling one drip onto him, Martin raises his head and begins licking them off Malcolm's face as he _thrusts_.

It's like being punched in the chest. _It's like coming back to life after drowning_.

“That's my boy! My good boy. Ugh, your beautiful,” Martin moans. “Could stay with you in this bed all fucking day. There's so much more for us to explore together...”

Malcolm knows better than to think he's talking only of sex. A tide of panic attempts to rise, gets buried under swells of love-adoration-hunger as Martin drags his legs up and around—his cock now hits Malcolm's prostate, and there on his inner thigh, his soul mark keeps contact with Martin's hip. His cries turn vocal once more, uncontainable.

He feels the thrum of his father's pulse, hears his grunts and murmurs and panting whimpers. Their combined body heats are stifling, and exhilerating. Malcolm can't help himself.

“I love you, Dad.”

Groaning like a wounded animal, Martin reers up and rams his mouth into Malcolm's. The pain is delicious seasoning on the powerful thrusts rattling his bones. It soon turns soft, though, slow, probing licks and tender teeth digging in merely enough to be felt. The pumping of Martin's dick into him, though, that doesn't gentle.

“ _Oh_ , oh fuck. _Fuck me_.”

Too far gone to taunt, Martin begs, “Tell me you love me, Malcolm.”

“I do! Yes, yes, I love you, you're so fucking good to me! I love you. I've always loved you.”

“ _My boy_. My Malcolm. Dad loves you, too.”

As if commanded by those four perfect words, Malcolm cums. Silently, lips pulled back in a snarl, body folding into a pose better suited for yoga. Martin cums with him, nearly an afterthought. When the aftershocks abate, Martin lies atop him, hands cupping his face, weight resting on his elbows and knees. His softening cock still in his ass.

Blushing, Malcolm shyly uncoils his legs from Martin's waist, his bloodied nails from Martin's back. His right hand remains trapped—he can feel it shaking. The high abandons him instantly. He just—he _begged_ his serial killer father to fuck him. And Martin did. Destiny now seems a lousy excuse; Malcolm'd dismissed it young, lived his life like his mark was a mole or some other dull blemish. Nothing of import. Nothing of relevance to the broken prodigal son.

His father pets his hair, kisses his cheek. Is still inside him. Malcolm wants to squirm, but he's afraid it'll prompt Martin pulling out, or that the movement itself will separate them. It's just, so nice. Being warm and whole and so well-loved he aches from it.

“What happens now?” he murmurs, almost hoping against an answer.

Martin's head's dropped, he's nuzzling Malcolm's face, the velvety rub of his beard something he's already regretting missing days from now. He wonders what his scratchy stubble feels like in comparison, if it's at all pleasant. If it'll _become_ pleasant when Martin's returned to his cell, robbed of human contact once more.

“We'll figure it out. You don't need to worry; Dad's got you now.”

Funny. That _was_ his greatest fear.

Malcolm's eyes slide shut, breathing slowing. He's oddly comfortable like this. Sleep lurks at the edges of his mind; nurses will be in soon, officers, too, to check on their prisoner patient. Could be they heard them, could be they'll smell it—seeing is a different nightmare entirely.

But not his greatest fear.

His greatest fear, today, cradled in the heat of his father...

His greatest fear is never having this again.


End file.
